


Purity of the Heart

by mresundance



Category: Arts & Sciences RPF, RPF - 18th-19th c Arts and Sciences, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1800s, 19th Century, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Canon Bisexual Character, Crossover, Crossover Pairing, Demisexual Character, Demisexuality, Drama, First Kiss, First Time, Georgian Period, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, London, M/M, Memory, Multi, POV Third Person, Regency, Timey-Wimey, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mushroom soup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-28
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Like loving someone to the point that all other concerns were burned off, like dross, leaving only the love – that pure intent – bright and clear as starlight against the black.</em>
</p><p>Lord Byron/Sherlock crossover, wherein Sherlock falls back into time and searches for a way home and Lord Bryon falls dreadfully in love with a strange man from the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where We Anchored

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/7277.html?thread=37943405#t37943405) at the Sherlock BBC Kinkmeme which requested a Cumberbatch as Sherlock/Jonny Lee Miller as Lord Byron crossover. I found I could not resist and the story grew larger than I expected. WIP. :)
> 
>  **ETA 02/07/12:** Yup. I'm not updating this any longer. My sincerest apologies. :/ If anyone wants to take this up, then feel free to contact me. I am happy to share ideas and notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed and britpicked by the generous and keen-eyed Kalypso on dreamwidth. All other errors are mine.

  
_Purity of the heart is to will one thing._   


  


\-- Søren Kierkegaard

  


* * *

He only wanted to know if the house was in a manageable state, but this was before the man washed up on the shore. A long tangle of limbs, hair dark as storm-clouds, and his attire unlike anything George had ever seen. A black great-coat of sorts hung half off one sharp shoulder, sodden and of strange tailoring. The man's lavender blouse and grey pantaloons were too baggy to be fashionable and he was naked of a waistcoat and cravat or any discernible undergarments. George could see the faint, dark circle of a nipple through the lavender shirt. He wondered if the man was dressed in some kind of sleeping clothes.

Fletcher leaned down and nudged the man gently. He moaned, water bubbling from his mouth, then stilled. Sand crusted the stranger's sharp features, speckling a complexion that would otherwise have been white as snowfall. George wondered what colour the man's shut eyes were. Brown, he imagined; dark, to match his hair.

'He is alive then?' George asked, sliding down from his horse.

'He seems so, my lord,' Fletcher answered.

George swept his own coat-tails from the ground, bundling them against his thighs as he squatted in the sand, ever careful of his bad leg.

The man breathed, but only just. Up close his skin had an unwholesome grey pallor and his full lips were faintly blue. George remembered fairy tales, where strangers came out of the woods and, kneeling, rescued unconscious maidens with a kiss. He smirked at this -- at the idea of innocent maidens and rescue -- even as his heart longed for it, in its own contrary manner. It wasn't the idea of innocence, so much; he knew such a thing, especially for himself, was forgone. It was more an ideal of purity; a purity which was not strictly spiritual, physical, nor moral, but a purity of intent. Like loving someone to the point that all other concerns were burned off, like dross, leaving only the love -- that pure intent -- bright and clear as starlight against the black.

As he pinched a lock of the man's dark, gritty hair between his thumb and forefinger, he wondered what that kind of intent would feel like. And then, with a shiver, thought: _what a gorgeous specimen_. Later, and very briefly, George would wonder if the thing which drew him was the man's vulnerability -- the way he lay under him exposed, at the mercy of the elements and passers-by such as himself.

His own coat whipped and swirled in the wind as he stood.

'We will put him on the horse and take him back to the house.'

'Yes sir.'

* * *

The house was half a league inland, modest in design, nestled behind hawthorn and cherry trees. In the summer, the bees made the garden air hum as they drifted, lazy and unfocused. George had heard mention of a beekeeper, nearly a century ago, but after years of neglect the hives had gone wild, overgrown with honeysuckle and sea lavender. Now, in the spring, though the trees were in bud, the garden was still subdued and grey, air cool as the sun clambered over the horizon. The ivy growing on the east wall glowed orange and pink in the sunrise, and the red brick of the house became the same ruddy colour as a boy's cheeks in his first flush of love.

George let his servants take the man, retiring to the dining room with a soda water and brandy. He listened to the servants scuffling about, probably trying to manoeuvre the stranger onto the couch in the drawing room. George heard a thud and Mary, the maid, exclaimed:

'For goodness' sake!' her voice shrill and loud, startling even the pigeons nested in the attic.

'Mary,' Fletcher said, without chiding.

'This is strange even for his lordship.'

Fletcher said something else, too low to be overheard even through the thin, shabby walls, but George knew what Fletcher said was kind, reserved and calming. His valet might be a dull man, unoriginal, but he was devoted.

George smiled into his glass, thinking his whole life up to this point, strange, unorthodox. From the drawing room, there was a heavy crash.

'Who -- who are you?' a strange voice demanded. It was a dark voice, coming out breathless and bewildered: 'What are you doing?'

The stranger, then, had awoken. George set his glass down with force and it nearly toppled as he ran to the drawing room.

The scene was almost comical. The stranger, backed into a corner, clutched a thin linen sheet around his naked and shivering body. He was confronted on one side by Mary, indignant, fists planted on her hips. On the other side was Fletcher, hands raised.

As George entered, the stranger gazed upon him. His eyes were not brown, but a shocking, bright blue, icy as the northern sea. The colour had returned to his lips, but only faintly. His face seemed carved of marble: skin so pale, cheeks and chin so sharp.

'Is this some kind of sick joke?' the man growled. 'The local historical re-enactors turned kidnappers?'

He continued to back away from Mary, Fletcher and George, the three of them circling him at a distance. An expression of fear fractured the man's face.

'Where is John?' he demanded. The ice in his eyes melted for a moment and he looked around as if he'd find this John in the doorway, on the ceiling, behind the couch.

'John,' he called, voice quivering like an abandoned child's.

 _Poor wretch_ , George thought. He began to take off his over-coat, which he had left on because the house was full of draughts, even with fires popping in the hearths.

'Here,' he said, walking towards the stranger, extending the coat. The stranger snarled and lunged, teeth sinking into George's forearm. Mary screamed. George cried out himself, more from shock -- blood humming between his ears and heart battering against his ribcage -- as Fletcher intervened and pulled the man off.

'Are you all right sir?'

'Yes,' George tried not to laugh. 'I am fine.'

'If you've hurt him, if you've touched him --' the man fumed, struggling with Fletcher. 'I will kill you.'

'Well, you are a bit ungrateful,' George snapped, feeling his temper rise. Though he pitied the man, he did not take well to threats.

' _Ungrateful_ \--'

'We have only been trying to help --'

Now the man snorted. 'Help? You've kidnapped --'

'We have done no such thing,' George said, wondering if this man was a bit mad. 'We found you on the shore.'

'I'm sure,' the man said. 'Of course I just appeared out of the water. Next thing you'll tell me is that you're really from the 19th century and you're the real Lord Byron.'

George fumbled with words a moment, while the stranger smirked at him.

'Fair imitation though. I'm not much for literature myself, but you're a good physical match, for Byron. And well done on the hair.'

'You are a madman,' George said, his rage so hot and so bright he found it blinding. He felt suddenly small, shrunken down into the child he'd been. The child who knew that loneliness was watching his father creep away to hide from creditors every week, until he finally vanished. The child who felt as if he would be crushed as he and his mother moved into smaller and smaller apartments. The child who refused to be crushed by other children, who hobbled in his wake, imitating his limp. His mother had alternated between forgetting to send him to school and calling him a lame brat. And even as a youth he'd cultivated a tenderness for other boys which veered towards the unnatural.

This stranger's mockery made him feel naked, too real, too raw, not at all like the sixth Baron Byron. Lord Byron had become an honoured guest of the Hollands, the Melbournes and the Jerseys and now travelled in the highest strata of society. He was handsome and tall and lean, and his wit was nearly as quick and sharp as his tongue. The inkwell of his mind overflowed and he spilled words onto the page which all of England and Europe read and praised. He was sought after by women with intricate hair, elaborate schooling and expansive wealth. Each new household Lord Byron was introduced to, each party he attended, and each woman he seduced, removed him further from being that frightened, lonely child.

'Where is John?' the man repeated.

'Oh, well. Unfortunate that,' George said, still humming with anger. He paused and pretended to be interested in the bloody crescents of teeth marks on his arm.

Later, George would recognize he had said the most foolish thing he could say. For now, though, the silence was absolute. George could hear the wind parting blades of grass outside and slow seep of water through a hole in the roof. The man sagged into Fletcher, nearly pitching them to the ground. And then before anyone had registered what was happening, he was on George, long fingers twining like white serpents round George's throat, his eyes wide and lunatic. The world blackened around the edges. George couldn't help thinking _Yes, yes_ , words drumming in his head.

There was a crack and the man's eyes rolled back, fingers slackening as he slumped against George, like a lover. Fletcher threw the stick of firewood aside and rolled the stranger off George.

'Oh. Fletcher,' George said at length, sitting up slowly.

'Are you all right sir?' Fletcher fussed with his hair, but in his own characteristically un-fussed manner.

'Yes. Well. Thank you.' George's throat felt constricted still and the air scratched over his vocal chords.

'Do not mention it sir.'

'I just hope,' George said, as Fletcher helped him to his feet, 'that you did not concuss him too much.'

They both looked on the stranger, sprawled naked on the floor.

'Certainly sir.'

'Perhaps,' George still spoke slowly, 'we should make inquiries to our neighbours. See if anyone has lost a mad relative. Or . . . _ejected_ one.'

'Yes sir.'

George stooped carefully, retrieving the linen sheet from where it had dropped, draping it back over the stranger. His own eyes did not wander over the bared expanses of the man's body, though he registered, vaguely, that he was attractive, in a slender, brittle way. George's head felt as if it had had an axe driven into it and he was more concerned with this at the present.

'And perhaps we should . . . take him to the guest bedroom and have him . . . secured.'

'Yes sir.'

After he and Fletcher had borne the man upstairs, George returned to the dining room. He alternated between swigs of brandy and holding his head in his hands, feeling the bruises welling on his neck. And he wondered exactly what kind of predicament he had landed himself in this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from ["The Cast of Malabar"](http://www.lyricstime.com/irish-folksongs-coast-of-malabar-lyrics.html), an Irish folksong which has become popular since the 1940's, but probably existed for many years before that. I quite like [this version](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQOHDztmCT0).


	2. Alone and Palely Loitering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed and britpicked by the generous and keen-eyed Kalypso on dreamwidth. All other errors are mine.
> 
> 6/10/2011: So yeah, a lack of updates recently. Real life events have literally incapacitated me for a time. Do not give up hope! I have a third chapter written; however, it requires some re-writing.

In Sherlock's memory, John's gaze lingered, bitter and coarse as salt, sweet and warm as summer. It was one of the last things he remembered: a glance from the corner of John's eye, running up and down his body. He had imagined John opening the buttons of his purple shirt, then unzipping the fly on his grey trousers.

But they were friends, he had thought and they'd left for the train station. Sherlock remembered laughing with John about something; the rest of his recent memory was black, inky spaces he couldn't fill.

A seam ached along the back of his head and his thoughts kept focusing and then unfocusing, like looking through a microscope which never adjusted correctly. The mattress sagged under him, springless, smelling of feather down -- real father down -- and the sheets had the harsh odour of lye on them. This surprised him. Through a crooked window a moon shone low and silver in a sapphire sky. The room was dark around him, interrupted by the ghostly outlines of a chair, a fireplace, an old linen closet. The furniture looked antique, but it was difficult to tell in the dark and with his head threatening to split apart. He felt like that Humpty Dumpty character; he was in pieces and he didn't know how all of him went back together.

He tugged at his wrists again, secured to the headboard by a white linen sheet. He wondered why he would be tied up with a sheet, of all things, and gnawed the knots slowly, head throbbing. They loosened, but it took longer than it should have. He sat on the edge of the bed, toes grazing the splintered hardwood floor. No nausea, which was good. But he still couldn't understand why he was wearing a nightgown or where his shirt and trousers had gone, or his coat. This nightgown was something Mrs. Hudson might wear. If she were nearly six feet tall and enjoyed an abundance of lace around the cuffs and collars.

He stood and, pausing a few times due to his head, crept across the room to the door. Everything about this place was odd. A silence permeated the air, as if there was no residual hum of electricity -- no currents running their endless paths through wires -- feeding a refrigerator, a computer, a phone charger. No light fixtures, no electrical sockets, no lights.

Descending the stairs, he held onto the wobbling banister. At the foot of the stairs, he sat and allowed the world stop shaking. He looked up at a battered bronze chandelier and chewed his lower lip. This house, though odd and lit only in a pale half-light, seemed familiar to him. He _knew_ this house. If John were here he might have said Sherlock knew it in his bones, though that expression was both cliché and not at all logically sound. But he knew it, the same way he'd known how to piece together evidence from a crime scene, creating a whole picture out of fragments. Or the same way he'd known how to have sex with another person; a sort of naturalness which, while clumsy and fumbling in those first times, nonetheless guided the touch of his hands and the hitch of his hips.

The house was Georgian, he thought vaguely, not at all pleased that his meagre knowledge of architecture seemed intact. He would rather have remembered where John was.

Laughter pattered through the house. He felt his way in the gloam, through a sitting room with a sagging couch and moth bitten curtains; then past a kitchen which smelled sharply of herbs; back to a room with warped floors and a worn table set in the middle. A thick, rank smell clotted the air, something like burning hair -- no, fat -- he realised. Tallow. A candelabra created a bubble of hot amber light at the end of the table. There a young man hunched over a plate. Behind him, another man stood. He was older, with mouse-brown hair. He stifled a yawn behind one hand while holding a bottle of wine in the other.

'Fletcher,' the young man's head bobbed. He looked like someone Sherlock knew. He was dressed in some kind of vest and a ridiculous shirt which spewed ruffles down his collar and chest. He was beautiful too, with dark sweeping curls and soft, red lips and milky skin.

'Yes milord?' The mouse-haired man -- 'Fletcher', surely a surname -- blinked.

'Fetch Mary. Now I want eggs,' the young man declared. His carriage and tone were stiff, demanding, as if he were someone important -- a lord, perhaps? But both his tone and the set in his shoulders were not relaxed enough to suggest that he had been born into such a status. He was not accustomed to status, such as it were, and, some of it had been a very recent development, telling by the creases of tiredness around his blue eyes and the Lord's frequent, yet unconscious little smirks. Sherlock's brow creased furiously, tender brain aching from effort.

Fletcher blinked again.

'I believe she retired milord.'

'It is nearly dawn.' The Lord sounded incredulous.

'Yes sir.'

'So get Mary out of bed,' the Lord said, waving a lacy wrist.

His accent was too precise and too clipped at points, Sherlock thought. The Lord's accent had been sharpened through schooling. Still, his schooling could not entirely rein in the flatter, more northern vowels, nor the guttural twinge in some of his 'r's.

'Yes sir,' Fletcher replied. Sherlock was still so busy with his deductions that Fletcher nearly ran into him.

'Milord,' Fletcher yelped, trying to seize Sherlock. His swing was wild, sloppy and clumsy, uncharacteristically so, even if his fighting technique, John had complained frequently, was lacking. He and Fletcher crashed into the room.

Everything see-sawed around him and he heard the Lord _guffawing_ and clapping. Sherlock rolled off Fletcher, who still looked very anxious.

'Well.' Footsteps, uneven ones and the candelabra drew near. The candlelight burned into the backs of his eyes. He groaned, covering his face with his hands.

'Steady now,' the Lord said. Sherlock heard shuffling, then a thud as he set the candelabra down on the floor. 'Fletcher brained you quite thoroughly earlier.'

'Why would he brain me?' Sherlock snapped, head pulsing, still covering his eyes. 'Did he tie me up too? What happened? Where am I?' And then: 'Where is John?'

Asking the question made him feel completely unmoored. As if he were made of threads, all coming apart now.

The steady graze of a hand was so gentle and so intimate Sherlock went still with the shock of it. He let the Lord -- this stranger -- take his hands and cradle them. He stared at their hands, both pairs long and elegant. There were black smudges all across the fingers of the Lord's right hand. Black like the empty spaces in Sherlock's mind, like ink. He blinked because that didn't make sense; he shouldn't have ink on his hands like that, not unless his pen leaked.

'We have started off in the wrong manner, have we not?' the Lord said, face soft with pity. The candlelight spilled over him and he looked like an alabaster vase lit up from within. Sherlock couldn't focus. This man looked like someone, he thought, and was furious with himself for not remembering.

'What do you mean?' Sherlock asked, words dull around the edges. 'God, my _head_. Nothing works.' Then he asked: 'Where am I? What day is it?'

The Lord frowned. 'You are in Sussex, and it is Thursday.'

'But what's the date?'

'April the ninth --'

'And the year?' Sherlock half snarled.

The Lord looked baffled. '1812, of course.'

Sherlock felt the world around him dim, like a city block going dark during a power outage.

'What?'

'1812,' The Lord repeated. 'Are you all right?'

'That's -- that's _insane_ ,' Sherlock said, lying down on the floor. The top of his head brushed the outside of the Lord's thigh and it was comforting, in a way, though his head still hurt. 'That's insane. I'm going crazy. Clearly. I've lost my bloody mind. That is the only logical explanation.'

Sherlock wondered if concussions could cause elaborate hallucinations. If John were here, he would know. He would sit him down in a chair, and in his tender, even-keel doctor's voice tell Sherlock exactly what had happened and why he was imagining being in 1812.

'Maybe the trauma is making you recede into some -- comfort zone? Why 1812, though? I thought you couldn't be bothered with history, unless there was some grisly murder, of course.'

Voice warm and pleasing, lifted at the edges with a smile. The sound and shape of his voice in Sherlock's mind and memory was comfortable and reassuring. Normal even, like tea in the morning and the smell of rain rising from London pavement.

The voice further echoed in Sherlock's head, picking up bits of memories. John saying something on the train, something about romantic poets; damsels with dulcimers and nightingales. This is mad, Sherlock thought, absolutely mad, completely utterly _mad_ ; the words _canker_ and _grief_ fell end over end and there were worms, worms eating Sherlock from the inside out, starting in his marrow and then up his spine and into his fractured, mad head, worms white and lunatic like the moon, worms wriggling out through his ears and mad, _impossible_ insane --

Sherlock's eyes were open and the candlelight stung and he was aware from the expressions of the other men that his laughter sounded quite -- cracked. He laughed until his stomach hurt.

'I'm in 1812,' he said, wiping tears from his cheeks. 'Yes. Of course.'

'What year is it supposed to be?' The Lord asked at length.

Sherlock laughed again, even if it made his head feel like shattering glass.

'2012, of course, but who's counting? I've finally gone mad.'

'2012? Really? That's. Oh -- how -- fanciful. Fantastical . . .' He seemed absorbed in this for some time.

'So you -- you are from the future?' The Lord queried eventually, even hopefully.

Sherlock folded his hands over his chest, brushing a lacy ruffle of some kind. Of course the figments of his imagination -- which is what this young man and his servant possibly were -- would find this intriguing and, worst of all, believe him.

'Of course,' he replied. 'And in the future, we have solved all of mankind's ills and live in a paradise on earth. It's beautiful.'

The Lord's face puckered in amusement.

'Also, men of the future bugger each other like rabbits,' Sherlock added. 'I buggered like a rabbit when I could. I was London's Chief Buggerer, in fact.' He had already lost one of the two things he relied upon. There was no telling if or when John might revive him from this state. He could be in a coma -- as if his life were the plot of that _ridiculous_ TV series John liked! -- for all he knew. Losing his dignity to a hallucination, therefore, was nothing.

The Lord seemed taken aback for a moment and then laughed.

'You really are quite mad.'

'Yes.'

'Someone called me mad recently,' the young man stood and helped him to his feet. Sherlock let him.

'Oh?' he swayed, bracing against the table. The Lord put his hand in the small of Sherlock's back, further steadying him.

'She said I was “mad, bad and dangerous to know”. I thought that was clever.'

'Was she right?' Sherlock said to the tabletop.

'I am the devil's own spawn I am afraid.'

'I've fallen in with the right sorts then.'

'Would you like some eggs?'

'Eggs. Fantastic.'

Sherlock allowed himself to be arranged into a chair while The Lord yapped orders cheerfully to Fletcher, who had stood in the doorway the entire time. Fletcher's steady and unassuming tread creaked on the floorboards as he left.

'Fletcher is a marvel, but do not tell him.'

Slumping into the chair next to Sherlock's, The Lord took a loud, sloppy gulp of wine. His goblet was made from a human skull, an actual one, like the one on Sherlock's mantel. Yes, obviously Sherlock was mad and imagining things from within some kind of concussed, coma-state.

He listened to the man drain his goblet and wondered how he knew him. He wore a ring of fresh, finger-shaped bruises around his neck. On his forearm there was another ring, of crimson teeth-marks, also fresh. Perhaps he was a case Sherlock was working on. He wondered if it was reasonable to simply ask.

'Who are you, by the way?'

The young man put down his emptied goblet and crooked a sleek dark brow. 'George Gordon -- I mean. Lord Byron,' he said, holding out his hand.

Sherlock thought about this and -- Lord Byron's -- George's hand.

'Lord Byron?' he said, taking the hand. 'Like -- the writer?'

George flinched before smiling, which Sherlock thought odd.

'The same,' he said.

'Well, that's nice,' Sherlock said. Why his mind would fix on a writer -- of all things -- he didn't know.

'And who are you?' George asked when Sherlock stared vacantly, silently, for a moment.

'Oh. I'm Sherlock Holmes. And I'm mad as a bag of ferrets. Apparently,' he said.

'What a fantastic name,' George said. 'Why, that kind of name is worthy of a poem.'

'My brother's name is Mycroft,' Sherlock added.

'You could have the epic adventures of Sherlock and Mycroft. In heroic couplets, of course.'

'Of course.'

George prattled on for a while, while a very disgruntled looking woman brought two plates of scrambled eggs and Fletcher returned with more wine. The sun crept over the horizon and George's voice rose and fell. Thoughts tumbled through Sherlock's head like loose marbles. The only thing which focused him, kept him from splintering into pieces, barred him from finding a pistol or a nearby cliff and ending this nonsense, was a word. A din of yearning inside him, like a hymn. The soft consonant at the beginning; the gasp of air in the centre which sounded like a revelation, like someone moaning as they came; and then the strong, sturdy consonant at the end.

 _John_ , Sherlock said within himself. _John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from [La Belle Dame Sans Merci (The Beautiful Woman without Mercy)](http://www.bartleby.com/126/55.html) by John Keats.
> 
>  _damsels with dulcimers_ : From [Kubla Khan](http://www.bartleby.com/101/550.html) by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I heard a story once that he composed this after being high on opium. Which might explain the poem a little.
> 
>  _canker, grief and worms_ : From [On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year](http://www.bartleby.com/41/483.html) by Lord Byron.


	3. One Track Mind and Eyes For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George has a proposition for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long this took. I had some health and real life issues clobber me all at once. Recuperated now. I hope to be slinging new chapters out much faster.
> 
> Beta'ed by the ever diligent Kalypso.

Excerpt from _The Lost Letters and Journals of Lord Byron_ , edited by J. P. Murray and reprinted with permission of Dr. John Watson.

>   
> _  
> 
> 
> ## 1812
> 
>   
> _
> 
> _  
> _
> 
> ### _11 April_
> 
>  _  
> _
> 
> _Sherlock -- I like Sherlock. Or should I say Holmes? No matter. I was worried about appearing gauche by calling him Sherlock, but every time he greets me he says my Christian name with a smile as if he knows something I do not. Why bother with formalities? His name is too interesting to be given over to disuse. _
> 
> _I still marvel that he washed up on the sea-shore, rather like the Birth of Venus. Only, he is not rosy or fair, at least, not in the way a goddess would be._
> 
>  _This place would be very Dull without him. There is no one for miles around, except for the neighbours. They are charming folk, a bit simple and probably have never been outside the village -- something which I can hardly fault them for -- but it makes for Dull company nonetheless. Sherlock does not belong with anyone here -- why would he? -- he is too distinguished and cultured a creature. (Besides, Fletcher made inquiries and it is confirmed; no-one claims him as a mad or lost relation of any kind.)_
> 
>  _He says he is from the Future and is mad, both of which could be true. I hope the latter is not and that his incoherence is only because of the blow to his head. It would be a waste of a very fine mind if he were mad. He also dismisses me constantly by saying I am a 'figment of his imagination' or 'part of his Sub-Conscious'. The poor wretch thinks this is all in his head! I should like it if he realised that I am not just something his mind conjured up -- that I am real -- and would stop dismissing me._
> 
>  _This house is supposed to be a place of repose from the cacophony of London life -- if only it were! Aside from Sherlock, I find nothing here but Tedium and Unease. I have not slept at all since being here, though, no bad dreams of late. My digestion is a little unsettled too; I have allowed myself only a dozen biscuits a day and soda water, except in the evenings. Mary has promised to prepare her mushroom soup one night and, though I worry that it might upset my stomach, I cannot decline; her soup is fit for the Gods. _
> 
> _Sherlock is probably not pleasant company to others, but he amuses me. His cutting remarks are almost as good as mine. He likes to study others and make observations, much as I do. Though he does not curb his tongue. Instead he seems to say everything he is thinking and does not care a whit if his verbal arrows pierce a few breasts through and through. He calls this talent Deduction. He had Deduced me very thoroughly on some points -- about some past unfortunate incidents, some of my travels in Greece, my manners and my habits -- even my miserable childhood! He calls me a 'thorough lecher' which does make me laugh. I told him this was an accurate assessment, but one did not need his talent in Deduction to find that out._
> 
>  _Mary, ever her parochial self and subject to the uneven temperament of a woman, is convinced Sherlock's Deductions are the work of the Devil. Eheu!_
> 
>  _He sleeps more than I do, but that is probably the bump on his head. When he is not sleeping, he has taken to draping himself over the drawing room sofa like a great lazy cat. I should not wonder if he purred!_
> 
>  _From this prone position he has told me some of the Future. He claimed there are carriages which move without horses; boxes which are hoisted by cables and bear people to the tops of buildings -- buildings which rise higher than any tower or cathedral spire. In the Future there are machines which fly as birds do, but the machines carry people in them like ships. There are also Lanterns which burn steady without the use of oil, nor give off heat. Cities of the Future are brimful of these Lanterns, resplendent with light from dusk to dawn and bright enough to drown out the stars. (Mon dieu!) _
> 
> _This last idea -- of the stars being overshadowed by human light -- was sad indeed. I told Sherlock as much and he agreed, to my surprise and delight._
> 
>  _Sherlock likes to antagonise me and I cheerfully antagonise back. I do not flatter myself by thinking that this is a strange form of affection on his part, though I am very fond of him. (Hallo once again to my social gluttony! Am I to swallow the man whole before I know little more than his name?)_
> 
>  _I think he is a passionate man, but he is not ruled by his passions. I would like to be ruled less by mine; Sherlock's reserve and brisk demeanour are admirable. But his affection for J---- implies a great wellspring of emotion hidden beneath his cold mask. _
> 
> _He is still walking about without proper attire. We had a very small fight about this. He demanded his old clothes and I told him Mary had destroyed them. He blustered and sulked for nearly half a day._
> 
>  _I have loaned him some of my things -- a nightgown and some articles of clothing I no longer care for -- but when we return to London I will call up my tailor and have Sherlock fitted. Good tailoring would show him off to full advantage. Looking at him makes sick with envy. That I could achieve a form so lithe and so splendid!_
> 
>  _I say when he returns with me; I am returning within the week -- thank God! -- but I have not asked Sherlock if he would like to join me. It does not seem right to take him into my care and then abandon him so abruptly. Thus to London with the both of us! Huzza! Hourra! _
> 
> _I do hope he will come with me. _
> 
> _  
> _
> 
> ### _12, midnight._
> 
>  _  
> _
> 
> _How I despise him! I have invited him to join in a delicious social repast of London together, and he has utterly rejected me. Such a look came upon his face -- as if I had asked him to do something truly abhorrent! -- that look alone was harder than any blow he might have delivered. _
> 
> _Our shouting roused Fletcher, who thought Sherlock meant to do violence to me. We have separated now, after agreeing to a venomous, brooding Peace._
> 
>  _I will leave him if that is what he wishes. He can dwell with the Vermin in this pustule of a cottage. God knows the vermin are more to his liking than my company seems to be!_

  


* * *

The venomous peace lasted through the night and into the next day, reverberating through the house and even out into the shambling garden. The air felt charged, as if a great storm crouched upon the horizon. Each time he passed Sherlock's shut door, George glowered. Aside from shadows which now and then obscured the seam of sunlight under the door, he did not see or hear from Sherlock.

'How long does he expect to hole himself up in there?' George growled to Fletcher that afternoon, while cramming a few excess biscuits into his mouth. He then proceeded to burn several new poems in the kitchen fire, merely to feel the satisfaction of destroying something. It pleased him for a few hours, long enough that he could enjoy his afternoon ride, and his tone was partially amicable when he told Mary that her mushroom soup would be welcome in the evening.

He felt a stupefying shock then, as he settled in for dinner, when he heard footsteps descending the stairs.

'Good evening,' Sherlock said, rather resentfully. The gargoyle-like scowl from yesterday remained, sharpening the contrast of his features; his skin ever the more pale and his hair ever the more dark and his eyes a storm-blown sea. But George was relieved and triumphant to note that Sherlock had -- at last! -- dressed himself like a gentleman with a waistcoat, dark green tailcoat and tan pantaloons. However, the advantage to which the clothes would have shown Sherlock were curbed by his anger; the grace and elegance of movement George had seen seeping back into his limbs had abandoned him. Sherlock moved mincingly, stiff and taut as he arranged himself in the chair furthest from George. He glared across the table.

'Good evening -- Sherlock --' George said. 'Mary, bring another bowl for Sherlock.'

The silence snapped back around them for a while, disturbed only by Mary as she served her soup and then the bright _clinks_ of spoons. They ate carefully and just as carefully pretended to ignore one another. George covertly passed his eyes over Sherlock, noticing that his clothes settled a little awkwardly on Sherlock's leaner, taller frame. He had not put on a cravat, instead leaving his shirt-collar open, exposing a ivory 'V' of skin. George found his eyes following the crease of that 'V' without his volition. Sherlock smirked and George's eyes dropped into his bowl of soup. He kept his gaze there, watching his milky reflection for some minutes before Sherlock made a small noise. A swift intake of breath that made George look up.

Sherlock's face was fractured, as if the scowl he had fixed there was doing battle with another look, one of surprise and pleasure. The latter was winning. He dipped his spoon into the bowl and made another noise as it met his lips. George's own face wrinkled with confusion and Sherlock licked his spoon, tongue fanning across the back. George shifted in his chair.

' _Amazing_ ,' Sherlock groaned, lathering his attentions upon a new spoonful. He hummed, pink lips shining with saliva as his tongue snaked between them in an unconsciously sensuous gesture. George crossed his legs under the table in an attempt to disguise the part of himself which was beginning to display much more than platonic curiosity at this point.

'It reminds me of my grandmother's,' Sherlock said faintly into his bowl. 'Her mushroom soup was home-made, all from scratch. Not canned . . .'

Sherlock's voice ebbed and he looked abashed, dark lashes fluttering, his whole face and demeanour softened.

'Oh,' said George faintly. Then: 'Mary, he likes your soup!'

'Thank you your lordship,' Mary chirped from the kitchen.

'But why -- my grandmother -- ? Why would my bloody idiotic subconscious --' Sherlock said to himself.

At the words _idiotic subconscious_ , four days of being rebuffed and dismissed as imaginary, of Deductions and the earlier arguments and the venomous silence of the last day, finally prompted an eruption.

'No!' George banged his fist on the table. His bowl of soup and the candelabra quaked. 'I am not your idiotic Sub-Conscious, I am not a figment of your mind, I am a _real person_!'

Sherlock quirked a brow. 'I could _see_ that --'

'Shut up. Shut up you ingrate.'

'Because I have so much to be grateful for. You keep me prisoner here, you _burned my clothes_ \--' Sherlock's voice boomed like a cannon. He sounded as if George had gone marauding through the countryside, razing villages and ravaging peasants, rather than just having Mary destroy a filthy shirt and pair of trousers.

'Burning your clothes was a service to mankind and most especially to you!' George's brows arched fiercely. 'You claim to be so good at acting -- why not pretend to be grateful for once!'

'I'll be gone soon enough so you can stop getting your pantaloons in a bunch _your lordship_. I am going to wake up and John will be there and this will all be over. London won't even happen -- this -- this isn't real.'

'Then my invitation to you was not real either.'

George swore in French and Sherlock retorted in French, so George muttered insults in Greek. They each stabbed at their soup and resumed ignoring one another.

George felt a hot, wet substance in his hair dribbling past his ear. He looked up just in time for a glob of soup, flung from Sherlock's spoon, to land between his eyes. George shouted and, acting on instinct, scooped up a handful of soup. It arched across the table, leaving a long drizzle and spattering Sherlock. He retaliated quickly, launching another spoonful which struck George in the heart. For a few furious moments they duelled, volleys of soup, spraying the table and walls with grey and white and brown bits of mushroom. Finally George threw his bowl. Sherlock ducked, of course, and the bowl shattered against the wall into a dozen fragments of porcelain and soupy mess.

From his crouch on the floor Sherlock laughed.

'Shut up! This is supposed to be my rest house!' George's voice cracked.

'Is everything all right sir?' Fletcher peered from the doorway at the two men, sticky with soup and chortling on like a pair of old schoolfellows.

'We could perhaps do with something to clean ourselves up?' George managed.

'Of course sir,' Fletcher said, as if George had only requested the post for the day, or a glass of soda water, and had markedly less unusual habits.

'Mary, we have had a bit of a spill in the dining room,' George called as Fletcher bustled out.

'Yes -- sir -- oh --' Mary swayed in the doorway from the kitchen, mouth turning into a disappointed pucker as her eyes swept over the dining room.

'She can't clean this,' Sherlock scoffed, attitude transforming from boyish merriment to thorough disapproval. ' _We_ made the mess.'

'Why should we do that? The cleaning I mean,' George sneered. 'Mary will do it, like she always does. Won't you Mary?'

'Yes sir,' Mary said, with a blandness and weariness that George refused to acknowledge.

'There, see? Now come with me,' he took Sherlock by a soup-smeared forearm.

In the sitting room, George began peeling out of his tailcoat and waistcoat. Sherlock hovered near the doorway, a minute and alarmed expression creasing the ends of his mouth into a frown.

George laughed. 'Mr. Holmes, do you think I am going to proposition you?' And then his heart thudded.

'With you that's almost assured,' Sherlock deadpanned.

'I will not tonight.' He threw both his tailcoat and his waistcoat onto the floor. ' _Come_ on.'

'Hm,' Sherlock said.

He began unbuttoning his waistcoat. Anyone could have attributed Sherlock's slowness to being unfamiliar with the clothing, or to tiredness. But George saw a small tremor in those elegant hands and he fumbled.

George smiled as he would at a child and went to him.

'It is all right, I will not touch you,' George said when Sherlock baulked. 'Hold still.' He finished the last few buttons for Sherlock, who leaned on his heels, back, away and did not even look at him. For his part, George focused on the buttons and not the blotches of soup dappling Sherlock's bare throat like an invitation.

'I think John would find this very childish,' Sherlock said in a low, lost voice. His fingertips grazed George's throat, to the fading ring of bruises. George's heart bobbed into his throat and lodged there, making it difficult for him to speak or find his breath.

Then Sherlock was gone, a swish of cool air and footsteps ascending up the stairs and the slam of a door and silence again.

George sat on the couch, quivering with excitement until Fletcher came bearing a bowl of warm water and a cloth to help him wash. Being experienced with his master, and wise, he did not ask about Sherlock.

* * *

The next afternoon, George spread himself out like a starfish in the garden, letting the fragrant new grass tangle in his dark hair. There was a song, of birds and crickets and wind in the branches of trees. The buds of the cherry tree were so ready that they looked tender and painful with the longing to burst open.

George heard the kitchen door open and waved his hand airily.

'Mary, have you --'

Sherlock loomed.

'Oh,' George said, folding his hands on his chest. 'Sherlock.'

'Yes,' Sherlock nodded. He appeared diminished, cowed and remarkably clean of the previous evening's soup fight.

'To what do I owe the pleasure?' George said.

'I'll go with you.'

'What?'

'I'll go with you. To London.'

'You -- will?' George propped himself on his elbows. 'You really will? Go with me to London?'

'You're not deaf as well as lame, are you?' Sherlock snapped.

'It would be fortunate if I were with you,' George replied. 'Rather as some men feign deafness around their wives and mistresses.'

Sherlock attempted to rein in his smile.

'Fine. It's settled. When do we leave?'

'Thursday,' George lay back down in the grass. 'Counting today - three days. '

'Hm,' Sherlock said.

George watched Sherlock retreat back into the house.

'Oh I am _not_ besotted,' he grinned and hoped he said it softly enough that only the grass and cherry buds would be his confidants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from the Libertines song [‘Death on the Stairs’](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VXTL947HyNY).


	4. And Take My Waking Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock remembers, makes impulsive decisions, and has a realisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, effusive thanks is owed to Kalypso, who continues to go above the call of duty as beta, Brit-picker and fact-checker.
> 
> It will be noted that Six Mile Bottom in this story is not the village in Cambridge. I've moved it. Or, more correctly, decided that there is another village called Six Mile Bottom in Sussex.

Sherlock only went along with George's London idea because he had remembered something. The first substantive memory he had had since his coma began. It knocked itself loose as George dribbled a trail of mushroom soup from the dining room to the sitting room.

The pain and disorientation had gone over the last few days. Sherlock's synapses had begun to hum again. His mind was at 85 percent of its full capacity, the only real glitch being that he was still in a coma. But he could remember, distinctly, each of John's different laughs; entire violin concertos streamed through his brain again; and his mental catalogue of interesting poisons fairly gleamed. But he had not woken up; he still did not remember what had happened before the coma.

George began stripping out of his tailcoat and then his waistcoat. Of course Sherlock was alarmed by this. George had been trying to chat him up the entire time he had been in a coma. It was not, frankly speaking, flattering to have one's subconscious so interested in oneself. Not that it wasn't unreasonable. Sherlock was a stunning specimen and his intellect was divine. He'd decided that George's fascination with him was probably some kind of projection of his own narcissism.

But then, with a strange, nauseating sensation, he remembered. As he halted in the doorway, everything else paled and faded until the memory predominated, sharp edged and so _real_. A cream coloured envelope which had smelled vaguely of very old parchment and arrived the week before he and John took the train to Sussex. In fact, it had been the reason they went to Sussex. The envelope -- handwritten in black ink with a bold hand -- had been addressed to _Dr. John Watson_.

'What is it?' Sherlock had said, poking his head over John's shoulder. 'Who is it from?'

'I don't know. Get your face out of the way,' he'd said, any sharpness in his tone dulled by fondness.

Opening the envelope, John had unfolded a thick sheet of high grade paper. After sniffing and licking the paper, Sherlock deduced it had been purchased at a Smythson in London, but the paper had not been _printed_ in London.

'How --?' John's face had creased with that familiar expression of bewilderment and wonder which Sherlock found absolutely intoxicating. 'No, never mind,' John said, turning back to the unfolded page.

 

> Dr. John Watson  
> 221b Baker Street  
> London NW1 6XE
> 
>  
> 
> J. P. Murray  
> Assistant Director  
> John Murray Archives  
> Six Mile Bottom BN21 7TJ
> 
>  
> 
> April 1, 2012
> 
>  
> 
> Dear Dr. Watson:
> 
> I am the Assistant Director for the John Murray archive. Some documents have recently been re-discovered in one of our sister archives in Sussex. You are the sole possessor and inheritor of these documents.
> 
> As these documents require special care to preserve them, I request that you come to our office in Sussex. There we can make arrangements for you to view the documents.
> 
> I apologise that I cannot give you more detailed information. Please come at your earliest convenience.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> J. P. Murray.

Signed with the same hand as on the envelope. Sherlock's mind had whirred off in a thousand different directions for a moment, collating data, before John cleared his throat and rubbed his hand through his hair.

'Mm?' Sherlock had said.

'I don't know a J. P. Murray,' John shrugged. 'It's probably some scam. Or an April Fool.' And he'd cocked his head at Sherlock, face endearingly resigned as if to say: 'You've already solved this, haven't you?'

Sherlock held each of John's expressions tightly now, as if trying to fix every fine line and rumple in his mind. As if he did not know all too well that memory was treacherous and malleable; that, at best, memories faded over time, becoming a shadow and a whisper and an echo of something which had once been real.

George's laughter disrupted Sherlock's reverie and he winced because he was back in this imaginary world.

'Mr. Holmes, do you think I am going to proposition you?' George's ivory cheeks and nose briefly reddened. If George were real, Sherlock thought, he might have felt taken aback by this. Or humbled.

'With you that’s almost _assured_ ,' he said.

'Come on,' George sing-songed, casting his soup spattered tailcoat and waistcoat to the floor. Sherlock could imagine John _tutting_ at that.

'Hm,' he said. His whole body -- his whole imaginary body -- still quivered with the shock of remembrance as he unbuttoned his own clothes. He was doing it so poorly that George apparently felt the need to help him, as if Sherlock were some _child_. But he let him, vaguely aware of the light, cursory brush of George's fingertips on his chest and throat. George's lips were not thin and there was no tautness about them; they were luxurious and strikingly crimson against the alabaster skin. He was not short, either, because if he leaned forward a mere four inches, his top lip would brush against Sherlock's bottom lip. His shoulders were not soft or slightly rounded, but had an athletic solidity and weight. He did not smell of disinfectants and wild, misty London streets, or shared laundry detergent. Instead he smelled of brandy and sweat. His hair was black-brown and curled, not straight and blond. And his clothes, lying on the ground, were thick, lavish things; not simple, or plain as a corded beige jumper.

Sherlock's eyes dipped down the arc of George's neck and the fading bruises there. He felt so sad. Lonely, not only because he wanted and yearned for John, but also because -- if this was real -- Sherlock wasn't even able to see _George_ for who he was.

'I think John would find this very childish,' Sherlock said, not sure where the words came from, except that empty, sad space. He touched the bruises on George's throat as he spoke and he could feel the other man's pulse. It was too much. He retreated, up the stairs, into his room and sleep.

He did not wake in the morning. Not, at least, from this place, this little square brick house where the doves cooed and the scent of blossoms made everything sticky. He lay in bed awhile, fingers tented under his chin.

London might not be such a bad idea, he concluded. He had thought he would wake up by now, which would have made an imaginary trip pointless. Though he had but slivers of his more recent past, he was, nonetheless, regaining memories. This was a good sign. Besides, it would be interesting to see what kind of London his subconscious could render. He giddily wondered if there would be an influx of murders and chemical explosions.

 _Patience_ , he told himself, turning onto his side. He felt furious with his helplessness. He closed his eyes and curled into a ball, coiled like a sea-shell.

 _Please_ , he implored. _Just let me wake up. Let me see John again._

He didn't necessarily believe there was anyone like God listening. If anything, he was connected to a machine somewhere and all it registered was his iridescent brainwaves wafting up and down.

But maybe John sat by Sherlock's bed and held his hand. Maybe John put his head on Sherlock's chest and listened to the low din of his heart the way Sherlock listened for noise coming from outside this imaginary place. Maybe John, who didn't pray either, was thinking:

 _Please, let him wake up._

* * *

In 1812 Sherlock moved to London for the second time in his life. In some ways, it was little different from the first. In 1997, he had been a withered looking twenty-one-year-old, skin waxy, eyes dull as scratched glass after two years of regular speedballing. His first lover, Victor, had left him, saying something clichéd like: "I can't stand to see you kill yourself any more." University had not been the salvation he had hoped for. Instead of Cambridge being a place of logic and level-headed inquiry, it was rife with bloody idiots. Tossers who, like Sherlock, were too wealthy and too privileged and too clever for their own good. Everyone had seemed sick and weary inside, like Sherlock. None of them was as brilliant as he was, of course, not even the professors. He had become bored very quickly.

The grief of these losses, mixed with cocaine and morphine, had been howling in him, a hurricane of noise, as his train pulled into Liverpool Street. That was the only thing Sherlock remembered of that day. He couldn't _think_ beyond dragging himself from the train. The lights were all ghastly and the voice on the intercom scythed against the inside of his skull and the cars cluttered the streets like cockroaches and everywhere was the lurid, murky taste of carbon dioxide. It still hurt him to think that he had been too high and too indifferent to take anything beyond himself, much less the city which would become one of his great loves.

So it would be to Sherlock's regret that in 1812 he entered London drunk. From the early hours of the morning George had been downing claret and Madeira between swigs of brandy, claiming it 'made time pass ever the more swiftly'. After four hours of bouncing around inside the coach, George was finally drunk enough to belt out Greek funeral songs. Sherlock decided the remainder of this trip, however imaginary and improbable, would be easier if he simply -- bottomed up. So he opened another bottle of claret (George seemed to have an endless supply) and downed it in an hour. And then another. And another. He had been disappointed to find his tolerance was not what it used to be. Three bottles should not have carried him off to the point where he was singing and laughing and tangled up with a singing, laughing George.

And how could this have such an effect on him if it was all in his mind? If this was imaginary, should he be stinking drunk or not drunk at all? He couldn't decide, vaguely aware of darkness closing over them like a shade descending over a lamp. From a distance the horizon looked like uneven teeth. But now the horizon had come close; what had been teeth were low buildings, no more than four stories, made of brick or shoddy wood. There was a brackish smell, then a bridge crossing an oily river. This is where Blackfriars Bridge ought to be, he thought, but this was not that bridge. There was not enough _red_ and too much grey stone and the bridge moaned and shook as the coach crossed. George whooped.

'Some day, this bridge is going to collapse into the Thames,' he chortled. 'Bloody Blackfriars. Waterloo needs to open. I would pay whatever tolls they charged, even if it were positively exorbitant.'

In the city proper, the streets were dark. There were a few lights from windows, a few streetlamps. Otherwise, everything was bruising amethyst and navy. Sherlock heard people packing up what appeared to be little stalls, could smell rubbish, hear children and dogs and rats scrambling through the odd alley-ways and backstreets.

They stopped and George bought a pie off a little man with patches in his thin clothes.

' _Mon dieu_ , I am _ravenous_ ,' he said, stuffing the pie into his mouth. 'Do you want any?' he asked when he'd finished, wiping the crumbs from his face in such a dainty manner that Sherlock nearly laughed.

'No.'

George scowled as he re-entered the coach. 'Horrible pie any way. I might need to purge it if my stomach continues not to agree with it.'

Sherlock said nothing, just watched the shadowed streets pass, feeling more and more bewildered and out of place. But this was _London_ , wasn't it? The city whose every street, every building, every crevice and niche and stone and brick and board and nail were utterly known to him? He could tell if a man had been walking near Harrow Road by the gravel in his soles. He could tell where a woman bought her cosmetics with a glance, a whiff. He could tell who had been bred and born Londoner and who had adapted themselves; who was foreign but knew London well enough; who was a tourist and didn't have the faintest idea that all the twisting roads of London lead to somewhere marvellous in the end.

When they stopped, it _felt_ like Piccadilly to Sherlock, though the roads were unpaved and there were wide open fields and a sprawl of connected, three-story brick buildings.

'Behold,' George tumbled out of the carriage, now achingly sober, and spread his hands. 'The Albany.'

Of course Sherlock knew what and where The Albany was. He turned around and there was Fortnum and Mason's. For a moment Sherlock thought he was back, he was waking up. But it wasn't exactly the same building; there were no lights except for a low burning candle. And what he could make out were not modern shelves packed with tea and biscuits. There were no shiny packets of toffee and fudge, no China sets or whimsical, ridiculous tea pots. There were short wooden shelves with wax paper packets and a single shopkeeper in an apron, sweeping.

'Are you all right?' George put a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock wished he could lean into him, bury his face in George's neck and let him run his fingers reassuringly through his hair.

 _You are drunk and lost_ , Sherlock told himself, dipping into George any way and burying his face against that warm, dove white throat.

'Oh, uhm. Oh,' George said. And then: 'Fletcher, bring our things around and stable the horses like a good man. I will handle Mr. Holmes,' he said.

The Albany's brown brick glowed in the half moonlight. The white-trimmed windows were like eyes, some dark and shut and others open wide, emitting amber light. George, his arm fast around Sherlock, was solid despite the fact he smelled of wine. His gait was uneven not from drink but his usual limp. Sherlock shivered, knowing this comfort and solidity to be a deception.

A servant greeted them and George was disgustingly cheerful after a two day journey. Lighting a taper, the man led them up a grand staircase. Upstairs there were hallways and doors, some with voices and chatter echoing from behind them. They were led to a silent door.

'Do you need help with your -- friend -- sir?'

'No,' George said, sounding overly gracious, which meant he was annoyed. The servant scuttled away. They shouldered through together, George propping Sherlock against the wall as he shut and then locked the door. Sherlock reached for George, pulling him close until he stumbled into Sherlock. They thudded gently against the wall.

'What in the devil's name has come over you?' George said, warm breath drenching Sherlock's face and throat. Sherlock's body -- his whole body -- trembled. He was not thinking, not with his rational mind, as he leaned forward. He was thinking of comfort. That he needed to feel something beyond his confusion. That he needed one solid thing in this whole intangible world.

George's lips were not solid and reassuring, but they were soft and generous. His arms wound round Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock could sink his own fingers into George's broad shoulders, into the plush fabric of his topcoat. He could breathe the salty, boozy scent of him, could taste it on his throat and along his jaw. He rubbed his lips and nose into the fine sandpaper scratch of George's stubble.

'Mmm,' George rumbled, swaying into him. Undoing Sherlock's cravat he sucked his throat. It occurred to Sherlock, as a knee slid between his thighs, that George was very good this way. His eyes were sapphire in the faint light, constantly studying Sherlock's face and reactions. Sherlock grasped one of George's hands and the weight of it was reassuring as he steered it to the front of his trousers. The tip of George's tongue pushed rhythmically into Sherlock's mouth as he undid each button, pulled his shirt out. Sherlock murmured into his lips as George cupped him in his palm. George smiled again, the wrinkles of anticipation and joy around his eyes deepening. The cat who got the cream, Sherlock thought. But that wasn't right. The way he kissed and the way he ran his free hand up and down Sherlock's spine as he slowly caressed him with his other -- it was more like George _was_ the cream. And he wanted nothing more than to let Sherlock lap up each and every spasm of pleasure until he was sated and George ran dry. He was incandescent as Sherlock arched into his body and his hand. This was how people fell in love with George. Though he was greedy and selfish as any man in the world -- and a bit more greedy and selfish than many -- in this moment he was giving. And he was good, so good.

Sherlock came and sagged back down into George, who rocked them both.

'Oh God,' George groaned, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 'You mad, beautiful, stunning creature.'

Those words still lingered in the air as Sherlock's mind went _click_ , a series of gears and cogs fell into place. His body stilled.

George must have felt the shift too, because his fingers paused in Sherlock's hair.

'Where have you gone?' he asked.

'This is real, isn't it?' Sherlock whispered into his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from [The Waking](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172106) by Theodore Roethke. Which is something Sherlock probably wouldn't have read of his own free will, much less enjoyed.


End file.
